


The Odds Are Slim

by nanchoparty



Category: Homestuck, Hunger Games Trilogy - Suzanne Collins
Genre: Death, Drama, Multiple Perspectives, POV Second Person, Violence, non-sburb AU
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2012-03-25
Updated: 2012-03-25
Packaged: 2017-11-02 12:45:10
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence, Major Character Death
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,163
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/369111
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/nanchoparty/pseuds/nanchoparty
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>It's the 41st Quarter Quell, and 24 trolls are split into two groups of 12 to be pitted against each other in an arena and fight to the death. But with alliances formed between teams, who will be the last troll standing?</p>
            </blockquote>





	The Odds Are Slim

**Be Feferi.**

With trembling fingers, your ivory carapace takes your tiara from its cushion and lowers it down onto your head.

It comes to rest comfortably against your forehead, and you smile gently at her as she backs away, stumbling as she goes.

She's a silly one.

Even though she's been indentured to a tyrian blood all her life, she becomes a mess in the company of your mentor.

That behavior could be considered extremely disrespectful, and really, you could have her executed and replaced for this, but you'll let her get away with it this time because you think she's pretty funny.

You give her a small wave of the hand and she scrambles from your block as quickly as her skinny plated legs will take her.

There's a dreamy sigh to your right.

"Beautiful," Her Imperial Condescension lightly grabs and turns you by the shoulders so she can get a closer look at your attire. After a few seconds of squinting and "hmm"-ing, she tries run a hand through your hair but her fingers get caught in all the knots and she sighs.

"Can't you do  _anything_  about this mess, little cuttlefish? This…mane you have makes you look like you just rolled out of District 12."

You look down at your bare freckled feet and shift back and forth from your heels to the balls of your feet.

"It's been a while since I've brushed it."

"You don't say?"

"It just takes so  _long_ , your Majesty, undoing all the tangles! I'd rather be spending my time training than pretending to be a princess, all holed up in my room!"

A scoff comes from the far corner of the room.

"And by training she means sitting by the water being a useless piece of shit all day."

"Hey, I-"

Your mentor rolls her eyes.

"Hush now, Meenah, leave Feferi be. Now is not the time for bickering, you girls have an impression to make."

She turns you to face the mirror, and fluffs your hair behind you as she speaks, laying the twisted waves so they fall over your shoulders and down to your waist.

"This is the big day, ladies. The day you've been preparing for your whole lives," she extends the word whole in a singsong kind of way, and starts to pace around the room, one hand on her hip and the other clutching her heavy double-sided trident.

You don't know how she can stand to lug that around with her all the time.

You guess it's just for the intimidation factor.

Frankly, you don't find her that frightening.

Just a little eccentric maybe.

She really does mean well, you think.

"This is your time now, the time to represent your district proudly and show them what you two are made of. Show them that your five and a half sweeps of training has paid off. This is what you were born to do, my lovelies. I want to see you rip them to shreds. You are ruthless killers," With a finger, she tilts your chin up and you're forced to look into her violently purple irises, "Yes, even you." The pacing resumes, exaggerated hand gestures and all. "And it's time to act like it. Be intimidating. Be fierce. Be winners. Make the audience love you, make them throw themselves at your feet. And remember what I told you. If you don't say the lines, this whole thing is going to be a flop. And if you don't make us look good-"

"Yeah, yeah, we know," Meenah throws herself into one of your armchairs, a puff of air escaping the cushion under her weight, her hands behind her head. "We don't look good and you make sure the Sponsors won't support us. 'Or  _worse.'_ "

The last word is dripping with sarcasm and doubt, not uncommon for your…spunky comrade (you'll be nice today.)

Her Majesty doesn't care much for sarcasm.

But instead of reprimanding Meenah like usual, she simply croons, "Shine out there, my little starfish," and pulls the unnecessarily tall door to your respiteblock open and disappears behind it.

Thinking she's gone, you allow yourself to slouch a little in your roomy dress and heave a small sigh.

But then she's peeking her head around the door, and you squeak a little, straightening back up hastily.

She, thankfully, doesn't notice.

"Oh, and Meenah?" She calls, a sharp, shark-like grin spread across her black lips.

Okay, you'll admit it, she can be pretty dang scary when she wants to be.

Meenah doesn't move from her position at all, she doesn't even humor the Condesce with a glance.

"Yes?" She calls back.

"Take those god awful piercings out of your face, you look like absolute trash."

This time the door slams and you know she's gone for good.

Meenah sits up and with a "humph!" she works on unscrewing the barbells through her eyebrow.

"Who does she think she is, telling us what to wear and what to do? Huh? Who does she think she  _is_? She isn't a god damned "Majesty," she isn't the god damned "Empress," she ain't nothing but a fucking mentor! So what if she won one fucking Game? So will I! I can't fucking believe she-"

"Meenah."

" _What?_ "

"Focus."

The word focus isn't in Meenah's dictionary, but she is at least considerate and quiets down, reducing to grumbling about injustice under her breath.

You take this moment of peace to collect yourself.

You look yourself over in the mirror.

Your face feels naked without your goggles - they've been replaced with eye shadow and several layers of pink-purple mascara that leave your eyelashes feeling heavy and you keep blinking way more than you really need to.

Your dress is a deep pink and it's overly frilly and the bottom flows out away from your body and the laced collar stands up around your neck and you are going to look like a startled, blinky puffer fish out there.

At least your hair covers a lot of the silliness of it.

You guess that's a plus.

You do a few twirls to get a 360 view of yourself and you frown.

The only part of your whole outfit that you actually like is your jewelry.

You have strings of gold around your neck and purple jeweled bracelets around your wrists and your tiara.

Oh, the tiara.

Your tiara is so beautiful, you think it makes you look downright regal.

Your partner's is just alright in comparison (they're really the same tiara, but you like to pretend hers is made of plastic.)

 _Let's get this over with,_  you think as you slip your feet into ballet flats that are as equally lacey as the rest of you and Meenah clears her throat near the door.

"Ready yet, princess?"

"I've only had 6 sweeps to prepare," you retort, grabbing your trident from next to your dresser. "Don't rush me."

You follow her down the high-ceilinged hallway of Justice Building and a distant voice calls, "5 minutes 'til show time!"

Standing outside the heavy wooden front doors, you can hear the Capitol anthem being blared through the speakers.

Even though you've seen countless Reapings up close and even though you've known this was to be your fate since you wriggled out of your cocoon, you're in awe of the fact that you are standing in this position right now.

Meenah keeps shifting from one foot to the other, tapping her free hand against her thigh.

"Nervous?" You ask playfully.

"Like hell I am!" She snarls.

She's really nervous.

You guess you're pretty anxious yourself.

"2 minutes!" The voice calls again.

In a hushed voice, Meenah asks, "Are you gonna say it?"

"Say what?"

"The line."

"Well, yeah, of course."

She says nothing in response.

"…Are  _you_  gonna say it?"

"Nah."

Oh.

No.

Hell no.

"Meenah! Meenah,  _no!_  You can't-"

"We're live!"

Your voice catches in your throat and you just stare at her, wide-eyed and stunned.

She flicks one of her braids over her shoulder and winks at you.

"Welcome everyone to the one thousand and twenty-fifth Hunger Games," comes the voice of the District 1 escort outside. "One thousand and twenty four Games have gone by, can you believe it? And this year, the 41st Quarter Quell, I think that you will be pleasantly surprised that-"

"Meenah," You hiss under your breath, grabbing her by the arm, making sure to dig your nails hard into her skin. "You have to say the line, you have to! Do you know what she's going to do to us if you don't? Didn't you hear her?"

"That's just it," she whispers back, a hint of hysteria in her voice. "She's not going to do anything, we're her tributes! She'll-"

"Now, please give a round of applause for your lovely District One tributes!"

This is it.

The doors are flung open in front of you.

You are blind.

Your hand slides down Meenah's arm and clasps around hers, and, squinting into the bright lights of the sun and the flashing cameras in the audience, she guides you out onto the stage.

The crowd is earsplitting, trolls are screaming and cheering and hooting and you don't think you've ever wanted to be somewhere else more than you do right now.

You want to bolt back into the building and curl up in your recuperacoon and never leave.

But, you do what you were told to do.

When you reach the front of the stage, you raise your trident high in the air, piercing the sky with it's prongs, and the crowd goes even crazier.

Have you died?

Your senses are overloaded and you can't feel a single thing.

You can't collect your thoughts as your stepping back again and the crowd is dying down and the escort is putting his hand on your shoulder and he's shaking you.

"Feferi? Feferi, do you have anything you want to say to your people?"

His gives you a wide, sickeningly fake smile.

And then you're back.

Your vision clears and your lungs work again and you can feel your heart in your chest as you look out into the sea of purples and pinks and golds and take a deep breath.

"Yes, yes I do, sir."

A pause for suspense.

You blink.

Once.

Twice.

You keep your expression as even and your eyes as fierce as you can muster.

And you say your line, just as you were told.

"I accept my duty as a District One Tribute and I will bring honor to my people by any means necessary."

At the front of the crowd, the Condesce gives you an approving smile.

"And Meenah?"

She lets go of your hand.

You try to grab her back, to stop her, but she wrenches out of your grasp and it's too late.

She takes the microphone right out of the escort's hands, and, too close to the microphone, she says, "I have a message to all the Tributes from the other Districts who will be chosen today."

The crowd is dead silent.

Waiting.

Waiting for an inspirational or encouraging line that will not come.

The Condesce has gotten up from her seat, her hands balled into fists, and is mouthing "No!" over and over and over again.

Her face is a deep tyrian.

Meenah smiles.

And screams,

"'Be prepared to have your asses handed to you, you fucking losers! No one stands a chance against me! No one!'"

Gasps.

Shrieks of outrage.

Looks of disgust.

The crowd is not amused.

And neither is your mentor.

Reflexively, your hand meets your forehead and you groan.

The escort desperately tries to take control of the situation and once again takes control of the microphone.

"Er, thank you girls. Ladies and gentleman, your District One tributes!"

No one claps as you are herded back into the Justice Building by Peacekeepers on each side.

The doors shut with a bang behind you.

All hell is about to break lose.

Meenah spits onto the polished wood floors.

You decide that it would be in your best interest to go into your respiteblock and hide out for a while.

It'll be a good couple of hours before the focus is turned from your fellow tribute.

You need to figure out what you're going to do, now that your chances of survival have been reduced to almost zero.

When the yelling starts, you begin to cry.

You are so fucked.

You sob into the palms of your hands, smearing the purple eyeshadow with the purple of your tears, and you climb into your recuperacoon without even taking your dress off.

Submerged in the slime, you relax, but you don't sleep.

There's no way that you're going to sleep.

So you wait.

For hours, you wait.

Until the screaming dies down and the Empress once again sticks her head through your doorway and says, "You were perfect, little cuttlefish."

And you cry even harder.


End file.
